


The Wolf and the Snake

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, drug taking, mention of canon incestuous relationship, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for ep 3 of War and Peace. Dolokhov's adventures in Persia are the talk of the town, but things can get interesting at home as well as abroad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf and the Snake

Dressed in all the trappings of a Persian prince, Dolokhov has come to the opera tonight with every intention of making a scene. He does so in more ways than one, rounding on Anatole Kuragin, his on again off again friend, clapping him on the shoulder and kissing him on the mouth.

“You look ridiculous,” says Anatole, but then he smiles like a serpent and lowers both tone and volume of the conversation. “And yet ravishing.”

The wolf and the snake. How they have laid waste to every city across the continent.

“Sit with me a while before I go back upstairs,” continues Anatole. “It’s good to see you after so long.”

They make a deliberate spectacle of themselves, lounging in the front row of the stalls -- the domain of those with rich pockets and poor breeding.

“I must have her.” Anatole’s arm descends about Dolokhov’s shoulders, guiding his head to look up at the balcony.

Dolokhov’s surprised. He has no idea what Anatole sees in the little Rostova girl. She’s as fragile as Helene with none of her worldly charm and secret fetishes. He, himself, prefers to fuck someone with a little more substance to them. Still, there’s no accounting for taste and Anatole has all the signs of being utterly besotted.

If pushed, and probably very drunk, Dolokhov might admit to suffering from a long lasting infatuation himself, and he smiles indulgently. “Then so you shall,” he answers and slips away to have a quiet word with Helene before the overture begins.

“You’re good to me,” says Anatole, once the plan is underway and they watch Natalya Rostova change boxes to go sit with Helene.

Dolokhov shrugs a little then grins, baring his teeth. “Of course. You throw the best parties when you’re well satisfied, my friend.” He doesn’t mind sharing. There’s enough of Anatole to go around, and he looks on with pleasure as the man sneaks past him in order to target his latest obsession.

The opera bores Dolokhov with too many words and not enough action. He dozes through most of it, head thrown back carelessly, arms folded as he makes a pretense of snoring, just to annoy the many sycophants around him. When he does sleep properly he dreams of Persian palaces and storms at sea. He dreams of life.

“Indulge me, Dolokhov,” says a voice that cuts through his rest like a scimitar blade, and looking around him he sees that the audience is long gone.

Anatole Kuragin is as smooth and collected as always, but his eyes shine, his skin has a certain flush to it and Dolokhov knows those signs as well as he does his own arousal.

They ascend the steps and then stroll through the wings to a brightly lit backstage area. There’s a party going on, a swelling chorus of voices that are roughened with drink and adrenaline, and no one says a word when Kuragin leads Dolokhov through the crowd to a dressing area that’s filled with lavish costumes, almost as extravagant looking as Dolokhov himself.

“Here will do,” says Anatole, pushing Dolokhov up against the wall. “Brace for me.”

This is far from the first time they’ve made a show of themselves in public, but it’s the first time they’ve done it sober.

As Dolokhov presses the flat of both hands to the cold painted brick, Anatole tugs impatiently at his clothing. There’s the sound of spit and then Dolohov lets loose a moan when he is breached.

“You love this, don’t you, Fedya?”

This is the only time Anatole ever calls him by his given name, a familiar version of it even.

“No.”

Fingers tangle into his hair, yanking his head sideways. “Don’t lie to me. I know you better than that.”

To take his mind off personal insights Dolokhov grabs at his erection, pulling it in rough strokes and thinking of nothing but getting off.

“You love having my cock inside you,” murmurs Anatole. “Especially like this, where anyone could walk in and see us fucking. Where your beloved Helene could discover you demeaning yourself on her own brother’s cock.” He licks at Dolokhov’s neck. “She likes to watch us together. Did you know that? It makes her wet for me.”

Dolokhov lets loose a low rumble excitement, and inclines his head until their mouths are almost touching. Anatole is an idiot. For years now he has misunderstood Dolokhov’s preferences for the Kuragins. Both are good; one is better. “The only time you ever show any intellect is when you’re screwing someone,” he growls. “And even then your wisdom falls short of the average.”

Out of the many possibilities, there is just one thing that Anatole is ashamed of and that is his intelligence. He flares with anger and those perfectly manicured fingernails bite deep into Dolokhov’s hip. “You think you’re so much better than me.” He laughs and fucks into Dolokhov with such force that he sees stars. “And yet we’ll always be the prince and the guttersnipe.” 

“The brawn and the brains.”

“A man and his whore.” Anatole tugs harder at his hair. “You’re even dressed for the part tonight.”

Dolokhov takes his mouth in a brutal kiss to silence him. To show him.

This softer exchange is enough to end the sabre-rattling between them and the sex takes over from it. Hands clasped together, they bring Dolokhov off until he spends in rivulets down the lime-washed wall. Moments later his own skin is painted as Anatole pulls out and comes in thick streaks all over him. Leaning forward, cock pressed tightly against his backside, Anatole shudders with relief and kisses Dolokhov’s shoulder. “As good a fuck as always, Fedya.”

“Did it help you forget the Rostova girl?” asks Dolokhov who is examining, with fascination, the pattern of brick ingrained on his palm, an ephemeral reminder of tonight’s gameplay.

“It did,” says Anatole, kissing him again. “Come back and sleep with me.”

Dolokhov draws breath and is resurrected. For years, the Kuragin palace had been his home, up until the time when Anatole had tired of his antics and no longer fought Prince Vasili’s wishes. He doesn’t dare analyse how much it means to be welcomed into the nest once again. “And your father?”

Anatole cleans him with a cotton underskirt from the rack and then tidies both their clothing. “You can try sleeping with him if you wish, but I doubt you’ll get anywhere. He’s a cold fish.”

“And Helene calls _me_ the beast.” Turning around, Dolokhov cuffs Anatole playfully and they wrestle and then kiss.

“Come back with me, Fedya. I need you.”

Dolokhov can count, on one hand, the number of times Anatole has shown weakness in his presence, and even though the spiteful side of his nature tells him to walk away, he’ll not let his friend down. This would always be a missed opportunity.

It’s a short distance from the theatre to the Kuragin palace and neither man is patient enough to wait for a driver. Instead they walk, enjoying the icy stillness of the night which is disturbed only by the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harness bells as the occasional troika passes them in the streets.

Dolokhov is freezing. Persia may suffer winters, but they are nothing compared to Russian ones and his clothing is proving unsuitable for the weather.

“Fool,” laughs Anatole as Dolokhov shivers. “I know how much you love to show off, but how am I supposed to fuck you when you’re dying of the cold?”

“Such a kind heart and generous spirit,” says Dolokhov as they race up the steps to the palace.

Anatole’s rooms are a world within a world, warmly lit and comfortable inside a soulless building. Prince Vasili believes in a show of human excess, but hasn’t yet managed to convince Dolokhov that there is any real humanity beneath the surface. He must know that his son and daughter are incestuous lovers--the Kuragin offspring are the talk of Moscow and Petersburg with their bestial urges and careless behaviour--yet the only thing Vasili gives a damn about is gaining them both a perfect political match.

Slamming the doors shut, Anatole pours out huge goblets of wine from the claret jug and passes one to Dolokhov. “Sit with me by the fire. Tell me all about what you got up to in the East. I love to hear of your adventures.”

“You could have adventures of your own if you’d ever grow brave enough to leave Europe’s borders.”

“It seems quite dangerous here at present,” laughs Anatole, not taking offence as he would do usually. He’s softer now, letting his hand roam over Dolokhov’s thigh, finger teasing a path towards more secret areas. Not that there’s a single secret left between them, except perhaps for one four letter word. “I missed you, Fedya. Tell me your stories.”

They drink long into the night and Dolokhov talks endlessly, his tales fueled by smoke from a pipe that is filled with sweet smelling tobacco, infused with cannabis resin and opium. It drugs him into a sluggish state of well-being where nothing is quite real.

Anatole is nervous of such new things and laughs at him when his senses go missing. “Come to bed, Fedya. Let me play with you.”

Dolokhov obliges and is led, a footstep at a time, into a familiar cave, hidden away beneath tapestry hangings. 

“I love you like this,” says Anatole as he rids Dolokhov of his clothing, piece by piece, examining each new scar and remarking over ink that has made its way onto pale Russian skin. “You’re a wonder.” This time take he takes Dolokhov face to face, moving slowly inside him and breathing in secondhand smoke which Dolokhov sucks from the pipe. “Are the Persians the most depraved race you’ve ever known?”

“So far,” smiles Dolokhov. “But there are many more countries to visit and people to fuck.”

He comes in a burst of light, Anatole’s hand, slick with oil, wrapped around his cock. Once he’s recovered from this brilliant white climax he then sets to work on Anatole, teasing him with biting kisses and gentle licks, clenching around him and drawing his legs up to lock tight around that body until it almost seems as if they’re making love.

“Must you go to war again?” says Anatole some vague time afterwards, when they’re both languid from the drowsying effects of sex, drugs and sleep, but still touching each other. Always touching each other.

“I like to fight,” says Dolokhov, re-lighting his pipe with a taper. “It’s all I’m good for.” He’s been told so many times, by many different people.

“Not all,” says Anatole with a shake of the head, rolling over and pulling him onto his lap.

Dizzy from opium and hashish, Dolokhov forces himself upright, using the ornate headboard as a prop, and then rides Anatole, that slyly handsome face coming in and out of focus as he drowns in sensation. Smoke billows around him, hours pass, and soon dawn is making herself known through the gap in the ugly brocade curtains.

“Have you two been fucking all night?” says Helene as she slips through the double doors into Anatole’s apartment. “Dirty little monsters. This place smells like an opium den.”

Sitting on the bed, she takes the pipe from Dolokhov and draws deeply on it where her brother lacked the courage to do so. Helene was given more than her fair share of brains and bravado when they were being handed out to the Kuragin siblings.

“Ride him hard then, Fyodor,” she says, half-laughing, half-serious. “Show me what those Persian princes taught you, before you murdered them all in their beds.”

Anatole reaches for her, but she pushes him away. “I’d love to, but not now. I’m actually on my way to visit the little Rostova songbird to see if she’ll sing for my dear brother.”

“Tell her I adore everything about her,” says Anatole earnestly.

Helene laughs at him. “And if she could see you now she’d know this to be true.”

Anatole nods, understanding nothing of the irony, and Dolokhov smirks, sharing the joke with Helene who leans on his shoulders and feeds smoke into his mouth from her own.

“Make him come, Fedya,” she says as she puts the spent pipe down on the table and steps away from the bed. “Let me see him undone so I can picture it whilst I’m seducing Countess Rostova in his name.” 

The only time Dolokhov ever obeys orders is when he’s fighting a war, or in bed with the Kuragins. Rising up, until only the head of Anatole’s cock is resting inside him, he pauses, on top of the world with Anatole gazing up at him, pleas falling from that elongated mouth as he begs Dolokhov to fuck him.

“Good,” says Helene, kissing the top of Dolokhov’s head. “Well done. Now let him have it.” 

Sore from so much sex, Dolokhov bites at his lip to ward off the pain, hand working at his cock to drag yet another orgasm from his body. He comes when Anatole does, those dark eyes fixed on him, open wide this time rather than slanted with curiosity.

“Fedya,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. “It’s good to have you back where you belong.”

Over the years, Dolokhov has grown certain that he’ll never belong anywhere, but this bed suits him better than most, especially like this, with Anatole’s cock in his arse and Helene’s hand on his shoulder. Yes, this will do well enough until there is another battle to fight and more throats that are in serious need of slitting.

 

\---end


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